


The Trade

by orphan_account



Series: A Change of Plan [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: What If story, playing fast and loose with canon times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:05:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the disastrous events of The Soft Hearts of Women, Cersei Baratheon watches the proud Ned Stark cope with the guilt and grief of his daughter's death. An offer is made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trade

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, I was feeling a bit lazy, and so the timeline might be off a touch. So if you read something and go "WTF that is totally wrong," then just...shhhh...
> 
> Shout out to all those wonderful reviewers of Soft Hearts who encouraged me to proceed with this messed-up plot thingy idea. You know. Alternate Universe, that's the word I'm looking for. Anyways. This one's for you.
> 
> Cheers.

The day Eddard Stark was to be sent north to the Wall, word came of Jaime Lannister’s capture. She didn’t want to believe it at first—could scarcely do so, actually—but more ravens came from the Lannister men who had escaped imprisonment at the hands of the Starks by some fated means, and the words in their letters were as dark as the wings of the ravens which carried them.

Inevitably, she was incised, and her fury was so potent that she couldn’t bear to look at the man whose hands had been shackled for so long that his wrists were red and rubbed raw. Her son, eldest that is, had taken a shining to calling on the former Lord of Winterfell (he had been officially stripped of his titles, though Cersei knew it made little difference to the northerners who loved Ned wholly); whenever a battle had fared poorly for the crown, Joffrey was enraged to the point of violence, and he always took it out on Eddard Stark.

He’d not maimed Ned yet, not permanently, although Cersei had the feeling that there would be nothing left of the man if Tywin didn’t insist on making the exchange soon. Joffrey was being restrained only by her constant coaxing, Tyrion’s blatant rude scolding, and his own half-thought out plans. If Ned’s life was left in his hands much longer, there was no doubt in the Queen Regent’s mind that she would have another Stark corpse to explain.

Ever since the execution of Ned Stark’s oldest girl, everything had changed. Barristan Selmy had been dismissed—hardly a loss, in her eyes—but the capabilities of the new Kingsguard were dubious, in Cersei’s view. Even the Hound had seemingly lost some of his edge, lost some of the stronger qualities which had made him worthy of the job in the first place. If her father hadn’t commandeered Gregor into his own service for fighting the war, Cersei would have sent for him long ago to replace his brother, who was more surly and ill-tempered than he’d ever been in his life.

News of Sansa Stark’s death spread like wildfire, and it evoked strong reactions from nearly every corner of the realm. In the south, the far south, Dorne had reacted with disgust and disdain for the grotesque crime, and it was no guess for the Lannister Queen as to why. The Martell’s had ever been a hot-blooded family, quick to insult and slow to forgive, and Cersei’s family had done more than most to deserve their anger. With the exception, perhaps, of the Mountain himself.

According to Cersei’s Imp brother, the Stormlands had reacted none the better, and in fact were spurred on by Joffrey’s unjust actions. The only saving grace was that they were divided for the time being, with stupid false-king Renly trying to crown himself, and Stannis bickering with him like they were still children. Easily dealt with, in time.

“It lends credibility to Stannis’ claim,” Tyrion informed her over a tall flask of wine. “If the royal family is going about killing innocent girls and slaughtering babes—because more know about that then you think, dear sister—it is no surprise that they all hate us.”

“I don’t care,” Cersei had said. “Joffrey’s their King. They will bow to him in time, or die for their insolence.” She had meant it then, as she meant it still. Her son belonged on that throne and come all the seven hells or high water, she would see him there.

If only she could press the importance of Ned Stark’s life on that same son…

But it was so difficult convincing Joffrey of anything. She could tell him not to walk in the streets unprotected to save his own life, and he might try it anyways just to spite her. Her grasp on him, her lioness’ claws, were slackening, and the hold she’d kept all his life was nearly gone. He was unleashed and feral, and she very much feared for the whole of the kingdom—and more importantly her family—for it.

Besides that, Joffrey hated Ned Stark _so much._ It was expected, of course, what with the… _foul rumors_ Ned had tried to spread (and had succeeded at, to some lesser degree). The implication, however slight it might be, that Joffrey’s bloodline was anything less than pure, was met with hideous maiming or else death. Ned had been spared both, yes, but not for long, and not entirely.

Cersei had been in court the first time Ned had been called on to attend a session. Bound and chained like a wild dog, he was dragged in, feet stumbling one after the other to try and walk on his own to no success. Meryn Trant had him by the arm, and drove him to his knees with one swift blow to the ribs.

“Eddard Stark,” Joffrey called to him, sprawled regally on the Iron Throne. He sat it as though he’d done so all his life. “Has no one told you how to dress when your King calls on you? You look like an urchin pulled from the gutters of Flea Bottom.” He laughed at his own joke and a few of his guard dared to join in, cruel and menacing. Joffrey fell silent when he saw Ned had remained silent and stony-faced, eyes on the ground in front of him.

Cersei looked at the former Lord then, long and hard, and felt ill with what she saw. Her expectations were much the same as anyone who knew the man had been—that he would succumb to grief, to his guilt, to the loss of his daughter and the uncertainty he felt over the other—but she’d been surprised. Surprised, and disappointed still. On his knees, Ned might have looked humbled and fragile to a fool in court, but Cersei knew an angry man when she saw one.

And if it was one thing which defined the man kneeling in front of her son’s throne, it was a very angry man. Silent as he was, Ned’s whole body quivered not with grief or tears, but restraint, fury, _bloodlust_. The sight of a man who wanted to kill her son was nothing new to Cersei, sadly. She’d been faced with enemies of the crown for as long as she’d been Queen, even when newly wed to Robert Baratheon. No, that didn’t surprise or upset her. The man had lost his daughter—she had enough sense to acknowledge where his pain came from.

The true fact which bothered her then, which bothered her still, was the complete and total awareness that, if Ned Stark was ever allowed to escape his shackles, if he was given even the slightest chance at vengeance, he would take it. If it cost the Quiet Wolf his life, he would die destroying her golden son without a second thought.

Cersei had never seen anger quite like that before. And she prayed she never saw it again.

Alas, her son was not used to the sort of violence directed at him (not so openly anyways), and when Ned didn’t respond to his foolish comment, he became insulted, imagining slights against him as always.  

“Are you deaf, Ned Stark?” he snapped, and Meryn obediently shot a hand out and yanked at the long dark, greasy hair until Ned’s chin was almost jutting straight out, and his eyes had nowhere to look but at Cersei’s son.

“You will answer your King, _cunt,”_ Meryn hissed loudly, shaking his hand which held tight to Ned’s scalp for good measure. Ned Stark didn’t so much as flinch.

Instead his grey eyes narrowed in on the boy sitting on the throne he’d fought so hard for Robert Baratheon to seize, and said,

“He is not my king.”

At once, Joffrey stood up, furious to the point of reaching for his own sword. Meryn hastily delivered a blow to the man’s side, likely bruising his ribs if not breaking them. Although Eddard toppled over hard and awkwardly, he didn’t so much as grunt.

This was a man who had been taught how to face death, and the threats of this boy didn’t frighten him in the least. No, Cersei realized with a cold wash of fear. No, they only served to make him angrier.

Joffrey had dismissed the court then, and instructed his guard to seize their prisoner. Meryn and Blount had either arm, careless of which direction they pulled Ned in, in order to haul him upright and to his feet. As Cersei took her leave she could hear Joffrey practically spitting with anger.

 _“You question my blood? You question my rights to the throne? You shall see what happens to traitors, what has happened to their daughters…”_ And he exited out the back with his guards dutifully toting Ned along, and before the Hound was out of earshot, Cersei called to him.

“See that your King is protected,” she cautioned severely. The scarred warrior didn’t say anything, but nodded with a grunt of acquiescence. “Ned Stark is not one to take kindly to disrespect of any dead, let alone his own child.”

And she had been right in that much. For when Joffrey had returned to the Throne room, he was almost angrier than before, frothing at the lips and stomping off in what Cersei prayed was the route to his chambers. Ned Stark was brought in much the same way he was brought out to the Serpentine, but he looked—if it were possible—even worse than he’d done before. His legs didn’t even pretend to help him, merely dragged along under him in what was most certainly a painful, rubbing sensation, and his upper half sagged over, slumped and defeated in every way. Sharp, guttural sobs were the only sign he was alive, and they were sparse and muffled by his own body, his chin drooped into his chest.

She didn’t see him again for a week, mostly because she couldn’t bear the sight. Something sat ill on her shoulders—not guilt, such a useless emotion as it was—but perhaps pity. Perhaps she would go so far as to call it disappointment in her golden son, flawless as he was. Ned Stark had been stupider than most to come and _warn Cersei_ of his intentions to tell the world she was a brother-fucking queen, but he had been honorable in a way Cersei didn’t know was possible. She couldn’t _regret_ the lengths she’d gone to in keeping her son safe, but the turnout for Ned’s life now seemed darkly ironic, even to her.

The court had all reacted differently to Ned Stark’s imprisonment and Sansa’s execution. None were so stupid as to display open disgust or hostility to their new King, but she had ears and eyes everywhere. Not so many as the Spider, perhaps, but he was in a poor way anyways. Varys had taken a little trip down to the dungeon the great Lord of Winterfell was kept in, and according to her peeping birds, had returned from them with bruises forming rapidly along his throat, shaped distinctly in the imprint of fingers. As though Varys had gone too close to the bars, as though a hand had wrapped around his throat and attempted to squeeze the life out of him with sheer arm strength…

 _Varys was a traitor,_ Cersei mused. She’d known such for a long time, or she’d known at least that he wasn’t entirely devoted to the Lannister cause. The Targaryens had put him in power, after all, and the man had a warped sense of honor. For Ned to react so violently to the Spider (and she didn’t doubt that it was in fact Ned who had tried murdering the eunuch), he must have promised Ned something, promised him, perhaps, the safety of someone very dear to the traitorous Lord.

And, Cersei knew very well, Varys had broken that promise. Unintentionally or not.

The Spider could be dealt with in time. There was no way of dismissing him from the council without arousing suspicion, and enough change had happened as it was. Renly had fled, Robert was dead, Ned was imprisoned and Littlefinger, well… Littlefinger was his slippery, shifty self. However foolish it would be to trust Varys, it would be doubly so to put an ounce of faith in the little mockingbird _Petyr Baelish._ It was known well that his loyalties had ever lied with Catelyn Tully, and though he’d helped betray Ned Stark and put him in the dungeons, Cersei didn’t doubt he had a plan, as stupid and fruitless as it might have been. The man had a plan, and she would need to divine his secrets very soon if she wished to intercept.

“Robb Stark has pushed for a trade again,” Tyrion announced when they dined together in her chambers. Affection for her youngest brother was unheard of in Cersei’s world, but he was an unfortunate necessity now that he was acting Hand of the King. And so she was forced to indulge in his little trysts with arrogance and power, forced to sit back and watch and wait for her father to return, hopefully with Jaime shortly behind him.

“Joffrey will agree to the trade,” she said quietly, sipping her wine. It was the finest money could buy, and she drank it as though it were red water. “I will make sure of it.”

“See that you do,” Tyrion leaned back on his chair, stubby legs raised in the air, too short to reach the ground. “Our father isn’t a forgiving man. Losing a potential tie to the north was bad enough. Had he left Sansa Stark alive, we might have seen a Lannister ruling a keep in the north.”

Her lip curled angrily. “Do you think I don’t know all of this? He doesn’t listen, not like he used to. He’s so…independent.” _Cocky,_ her mind whispered traitorously. _Blind,_ an even quieter voice added.

“Soon as our dear brother is returned and Ned Stark sent north—what then?” Tyrion tilted his head at her. The flagon in his hand swished, a low and hollow sound. It was nearly empty.

“What happens when the Silent Wolf is returned home and his men rally behind him? You can’t expect them to retreat and lick their wounds. They are northern men. Winter is coming, and they will outlive us all with ease.” He stood up, and walked to the window. The breeze ruffled his dark reddish curls, stirred gooseflesh to her arms.

“What happens is war.” She rose to her feet as well, tall and long and elegant, and sent her maids away with a dismissive wave, the barest flick in their direction. “War and death and victory. The Lannisters will win this, winter and all.”

“The Lannisters,” Tyrion repeated softly, a dark frown to his face. “What noble blood we have.”

At once her teeth were bared in a dark sneer of contempt. “Do not think to mock our name in my presence, _Imp._ Just because you are a disappointment does not mean we all must bear the brunt of that shame.” Cersei then motioned for him to leave as well. “Get out. I have much to do.”

“Of course,” Tyrion simpered, and waddled out. Over his shoulder she could hear him call after her, “Pray to the gods our family needn’t ever bear the brunt of _your_ shame, sweet sister. Gods help us all.” The ceramic flagon shattered feet away from his head, where she’d cast it against the wall in a fit of rage.

A week later, Ned Stark was sent to Riverrun in exchange for Jaime Lannister.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned for a part three (likely the wrap-up to this little series of mine.) It's a Ned POV. PS, if you didn't catch on to my oh-so-subtle hints, Joffrey took Ned to look at Sansa's head. Yeah. Think about that. Apparently I'm a masochist? Wallow in pain with me in reviews, if you want.
> 
> I would tell you what I have planned next as far as fanfiction goes, but honest to god I have no idea what I'll be writing next. I just watched the MSF of Walking Dead and let me tell you, it fucking sucked. So now I kinda feel the need to return to the Break in the Road verse to cope with my grief. Who knows. I also want to do a full length Sansan fiction but recently I've noticed certain "trends" in some (some, not all--this isn't a personal attack against anyone) fanfics, and it's just... Ugh. Ignore my whining.
> 
> Thank you so much for indulging my wildly morbid fantasies. Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated. Take care, and if I don't hear from you before then, have a happy holidays (and enjoy school break, for those still in school).
> 
> You're all wonderful and I love you.  
> Love, Miss M.


End file.
